


Written on the Water

by havisham



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bickering, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Skinny Dipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-29 10:22:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/685861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein silver and white are challenged as smart wardrobe choices, Fingon and Maedhros go swimming, and unexpected tensions rise to the surface.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Written on the Water

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [На воде писано](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10613949) by [rio_abajo_rio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rio_abajo_rio/pseuds/rio_abajo_rio)



> Written for Innin, who wanted Fingon/Maedhros, a road trip through Beleriand and skinny-dipping. Sadly, the road-trip aspect did not quite make it through. As for the quote that begins this story -- ah, just go with it. Say, Shakespeare echoes through the multiverse and some things are just too good to pass by.

_Journeys end in lovers’ meeting — as every wise man’s son doth know._

“And my father is known to be very wise,” Fingon said cheerfully. He seated himself on a rock at the edge of the river and stretching his legs. He looked very pleased with himself. It was a very hot day, unusually so, for the time of year — and so far north. But still, the sun beat down on them, and the water sparkled, cool and inviting. Fingon tugged impatiently at his collar, the dirt from his fingers leaving streaks on the fine white linen. Though that, of course, was a lost cause already -- a clot of mud, courtesy of the borrowed horse, had marred the pristine fabric almost beyond repair. His own horse had thrown a shoe two days into their journey and had been sent back to Himring.

Still, Fingon continued on, undaunted. “Why,” he said, looking up, his face covered by Maedhros’ looming shadow, “it is in his very name.”

“What nonsense you talk,” Maedhros said coolly, dismissing Fingolfin’s wisdom with a shake of his head. It was as if he was not at all bothered by the heat at all, though Fingon could see a thin line of sweat on the edge of his brow. Maedhros’ gear was heavier than his, metal and leather, and mail. The Lord of Himring took no risks, it seemed. All of it must be quite close, in this heat. 

“This is hardly the end,” Maedhros said, looking eastward. “We are quite far from Himring.” 

Fingon shrugged, glad perhaps, that Maedhros did not choose to dispute the other part of the quote. They were still new to this, this outgrowth of their friendship that felt, to him to be natural, inevitable. He went to the edge of the water and knelt down. 

Maedhros cast another look around, taking in the scene. 

The river they had been following was a tributary of the Gelion, and here it fed into a series of waterfalls, none especially tall or imposing, but the constant movement of water and sunshine upon them proved an irresistible lure. The forest surrounded the river, and dark pines found their reflection on the shifting green waters. Beyond, jagged rocks rose up swiftly, into the foothills of Ered Luin. The others in their party had gone further downriver, set up camp, and another, smaller group had been dispatched to gather the evening meal. Maedhros thought guiltily about them -- he should have gone along, of course, as was his duty, but instead he had followed Fingon up here, to indulge in whatever whim his cousin had now fallen victim to. 

Maedhros sighed loudly, and Fingon looked up from his task -- which was scrubbing away what he could of the streaks of mud that ruined his white clothes, embroidered richly with silver. 

Maedhros knelt beside him, watching him work. “I’ve never understood your family’s insistence on wearing the most impossible colors in the strangest of places.” 

Fingon rubbed uselessly at the patch of dirt. “Says someone who could have once been mistaken for a bird of paradise.” It did no good -- in fact, he seemed to have made it worse. After all, Fingon was no expert in matters of laundry. At the moment he gave up, with a heavy sigh. 

Then he felt a little trickle of water fall down his collar, and looked up, expecting rain. Instead, it was Maedhros, who now splashed him with water and sprang away with a quiet laugh. Fingon sputtered, shocked, preparing for a counterattack. There was a pitched battle that ended only when they were both soaked, shivering, even in the heat. 

Fingon pulled his tunic over his head and tossed it away, all concerns for his honest laundry woman banished from his head. Maedhros tensed, as if unsure as what he was supposed to do, especially when Fingon kicked off his leggings and his boots, and finally stood naked. For a moment, they were both perfectly still and silent. 

Fingon gave him a quick smile and dashed into the water, slipping a little on the algae that grew on the large boulders at the shallow river’s end, and propelled forward until he disappeared into the dark green water with a splash. 

Maedhros counted out the seconds until he appeared again. There, a flash of black and white. Fingon shouted for him. “Come on! The water’s fine!” He swung his hands down and made a large waves around himself, as if to demonstrate its suitability. 

“Perhaps I should --” Maedhros stepped back, and looked to the woods, which felt like it was full of watchers. 

“I’ll come after you,” Fingon said threateningly, rising up from the water, pushing his hair back from his face. Little rivulets of water poured from his hair and dripped down his chest.

“Really,” Maedhros said, interested despite himself. “And what would you do?” 

“What else? I would make you extremely wet,” Fingon said, settling back into the water. He began to make lazy circles in the water. “Don’t forget the soap.” 

Maedhros felt that he could protest further -- should, perhaps, protest further. But instead, he busied himself with his armor and his clothes, with the clever fasteners that were made to be undone with one hand. Occasionally, Fingon would shout out some encouragement -- or insult his damned slowness -- until Maedhros finally ventured into the river himself, and found himself alone, with Fingon nowhere in sight. 

It was an old trick, to grab him from below, all unawares. Maedhros said aloud that he had hoped that Fingon, who had grown so dignified of late, would be above such childish tricks. Only the roar of the falls answered him. With a sigh, Maedhros made his way to the center of the falls, to the largest of the three, and ducked into it. The water poured on him, and it was cold, numbingly so. He had Fingon’s lump of soap and half-heartedly began rub it against his arms. 

“I _knew_ you would come to this one,” Fingon said behind him, his breath hot against Maedhros’ ear. He wrapped his arms around Maedhros’ waist and pressed kisses into his shoulder. Maedhros sighed and leaned against him. Then, Fingon let go of Maedhros’ waist, and squeezed his ass. 

Maedhros jerked back and hissed, “Káno!” 

Fingon looked innocent, or tried to, turning to face him. “Is there something the matter, Maitimo?” 

“ _You_ are the matter. Anyone could come and --” he sighed as Fingon began to touch him, giving his cock quick strokes that -- Maedhros grit his teeth and managed to strangle out. “Anyone could see.” 

Fingon gave him a brilliant smile. “But there is no one here but us.” 

“You don’t know that.” Maedhros gave a strangled moan as Fingon quickened his pace. 

Fingon raised his brows, puzzled. “What was that? Maitimo, you’re becoming quite inarticulate.” 

“I’ll get you for this.” Maedhros gasped out, coming in Fingon’s hand. 

“Oh, I should hope so,” Fingon said, fervently, kissing his shoulder. 

*****

Sunshine and the clear air and the rushing water. Cold, it was cold, the water and now the air, as the sun ducked under a heavy weight of clouds and the wind rose, whipping up the waves. But the slide of familiar bodies together brought a flush of warmth to his skin, to his heart. Laughter mixed with the murmur of the falls, an ancient music. Another touch, and he floated, weightless.

He did not care if anyone saw. 

*****

Later, they sprawled on the sun-warmed boulder that jutted out of the water, hardly moving (Maedhros’ hand lay splayed across Fingon’s chest, and whenever he would shift his position, Maedhros’ fingers would dig press gently against him, and he would subside). 

“Perhaps we should get dressed,” Fingon said, after a while. 

“And be seen in that muddy rag? Perhaps you should walk back to camp naked. I’m sure it would be appreciated.” And then Maedhros pushed himself up and pinned Fingon down. 

Fingon looked up at him with half-lidded eyes. “How cruel you are, love.” 

“I only give back what I receive,” Maedhros said briskly, and then dipped down to kiss him.

Maedhros took his time, pressing kisses onto Fingon’s face, his jaw, his neck. Slow, gentle kisses -- kinder gestures than Fingon deserved, surely. He mouthed at the base of Fingon’s neck, felt the pulse of blood rushing, and the strident beat of his heart. Fingon made quiet noises, soft and needy, and pushed his hips up. Maedhros fell to his side and pulled Fingon along with him. He thumbed the head of Fingon’s cock. 

Fingon moaned, and thrust into his hand. 

“Maitimo,” he said urgently. 

Maedhros lifted his head, his lips tracing the line of Fingon’s throat. He deliberated for a moment, and Fingon looked at him with a dazed expression on his face, shot through with sharp anticipation. But then, Maedhros moved away from him, and his face fell. Maedhros got up and began to make his way to the spot where his clothes lay abandoned. 

Fingon sprang up and followed him, sputtering, “You, you...!” 

He stopped dead in his tracks, and turned, to finish himself off. 

Maedhros, who tugged on his boots, looked to Fingon, concern written on every line on his face. “Yes, Findekáno? Is anything the matter?” 

“No,” Fingon said, finally, after washing his hands in the water for the last time. He took up his wet and muddy tunic from the ground. Grimly, he twisted out the water from it. He dressed in silence and then they began to walk back to camp. Maedhros slung an arm around Fingon’s shoulder. He squeezed him, hard. “Are you _sure_ nothing’s the matter?” 

Fingon looked at him with the side of his eye. “Certainly not. One good turn deserves another.” 

And quietly, so those who were approaching them would not hear, Fingon said, “And soon I shall give you a turn -- a good one, that is.” 

Maedhros hummed his approval, brushed away a bit of dirt on Fingon’s sleeve. “I would expect no less from you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, caughtinanocean, for taking a look at it! 
> 
> And here is the [the inspiration for where the elves frolicked!](http://24.media.tumblr.com/77db0a270596648cdc42baa38e71d018/tumblr_mi4r0qnodg1rpn2x9o1_500.jpg)


End file.
